


Ever onward, ever forward

by MousselineSerieuse



Category: Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 22:12:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5472482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MousselineSerieuse/pseuds/MousselineSerieuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dolokhov adjusts to the news of Anatole's death</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ever onward, ever forward

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alley_Skywalker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/gifts).



He hears about it in the way that anyone would—first Anatole and then Hélène. Only fitting that they should die together. When he first hears the news, mentioned casually, almost jokingly, by an adjutant just come down from Petersburg, there is a moment in which his breath catches and he finds himself suddenly incapable of movement. _Dead. Both of them._ Only his heart still beats, pounding louder and louder as the world spins around him. _Anatole._  

“Didn’t you know him?” says Petya Rostov, looking up at him guiltlessly.

The fire cracks, the wind howls. Dolokhov finds he can breathe again. He reaches out, smiles automatically, stretches his fingers toward the hearth. Someone in the corner is coughing into his tankard, and Anatole is still dead.

“Of course I knew him. Everyone did. Never much in the way of brains, but amusing, and handsome, and rich. You should ask your brother about him.” _Or your sister_ , he adds silently, and on another day he would have smiled at that.

Later, he contemplates his options. Part of him wants to rush immediately to Borodino, to whatever wretched field hospital they have put Anatole in. Dolokhov wants to see his face one last time, even lifeless, even if it’s too late. But after a moment’s reflection, he realizes it’s pointless. Anatole, after all, is not injured. He is dead. And Dolokhov has spent enough time in battlefields and gambling halls to recognize a _fait accompli_.

His disbelief is rapidly giving way to a sharp and poignant grief. Anatole’s laugh, the way his hair falls, the excitement in his voice when Dolokhov is recounting a new scheme—all of that gone. Hélène would know what to do, but Hélène—

Inaction, he decides, is dangerous. Grief can be overcome. It must be. He pulls on his boots and goes downstairs and gets roaringly drunk, and he ends the night in the arms of a Circassian girl whose face he won’t recognize in the morning. When the sun comes up, Petya Rostov brings him breakfast.     

That day a Guards lieutenant with designs on the Circassian girl’s affections challenges him to a duel, and for want of anything better to do they fight it as the sun goes down. Dolokhov shoots his rival straight through the shoulder, and seeing him with his arm in a sling for the next month never fails to bring a small, ironic smile to his face.

Nobody could ever understand what he and Anatole shared, and now nobody ever will. The long Petersburg nights, the coded letters, pale skin and soft moans and promises only half meant. Nobody could ever understand the feeling that constricts his heart whenever he hears Anatole’s name. It was their secret, and now it is his, and that is all it will ever be.

. . . 

For the next three months he leads his band of skirmishers with quick and brutal skill against the French. He ambushes convoys and provokes the rear guard and captures stragglers to be sent back behind the lines. It’s the kind of command you dream about, the kind you remember all your life. The men he’s with all know him and admire him, not least young Rostov with his brash desire for action. Even Denisov, good-natured and dim-witted as he is, seems to respect him.

It is threatening to be a bitterly cold winter, but Dolokhov barely notices the cold. His mind is occupied with _forward forward forward,_ with the glint of the sun off his saber and the smell of ash and gunpowder. He conducts himself with ruthless efficiency, executing every order with cold, well-honed calculation. The feeling is exhilarating. He lives, in those months, for the sight of French blood upon the snow. And if it should be Russian blood—well, these things happen.

Occasionally a thought of Anatole will make its way into his hardened consciousness—a stray memory, perhaps, brought on by a captured French officer who holds his shoulders the same way. This seems only to increase his thirst for bloodshed. That afternoon, he lines up that officer and all of his comrades and shoots them, one by one.

(When it’s Petya Rostov’s blood staining the snow beneath his boots, he barely even registers what’s happened.)

There isn’t any point to it, at this rate. The French, by now, have had enough, and need no provocation in their hurried retreat. All that he can do is annoy them, or maybe punish them, make it so there’s one less cavalry officer to shamble into Warsaw that winter. It’s the thrill of war that enraptures him, the simplicity and the purity of it. He almost wants the French to invade again, just so he can have the pleasure of repulsing them.

And then, inevitably, it stops. The French are over the border, and the campaign is over for the winter. The army is settling into its camps, preparing for the cold and restless months in which all military operations are suspended. Dolokhov, his momentum broken, begins to long for warm fires and friendly card tables, for rubles to line his pockets and liquor to spend it on. The advance will be halting within the month, as soon as all the invaders have been expunged from Russian soil. When the snow melts there will be more to do—Europe is waking from its slumber, and next year they will advance against Napoleon.

Now, however, there is nothing more for him to do. He applies for leave and is granted it almost immediately—the superior officers have taken notice of his skill and bravery in the autumn campaign, and several of them have assured him of promotions. Dolokhov says nothing. He has never cared about rank or glory, and he is not going to start now. He bids farewell to his men and sets out the way he came, east and north to St. Petersburg.

. . .

Dolokhov has never thought much of Ippolit Kuragin—he was never so clever as Hélène or so charming as Anatole—but in the end it’s Ippolit who’s standing in front of him in his father’s study, pouring him whiskey and thanking him for his visit, as if he were a stranger.

“So tell me,” says Dolokhov. “How did it happen.”

“Shot in the leg,” says Ippolit, with surprising bluntness. Dolokhov remembers him as the bearer of useless platitudes and poorly-timed jokes in three languages. Maybe the past year has hardened him, or maybe he’s just bored of talking about it. “It—there was an infection.”

“Oh.” Somehow the death he’d imagined for Anatole had been peaceful, almost noble. Not—not this. Dolokhov is a soldier, he can fill in the blanks. _An amputation, probably. And then—_

The pain he thought he’d suppressed returns in full force. He takes a long swig of his whiskey to cover it, and when he’s done he sees that Ippolit has turned away from him toward the window.

“Say,” he says, “you _were_ very close, weren’t you?”

Maybe Ippolit knows. Hélène did, and all families have their secrets. It could never be understood publicly. Everyone knows that such affairs exist, but to be implicated within one is an entirely different affair. He and Anatole had never even needed to discuss the importance of keeping what was between them secret.

“Yes,” he settles on. “We were.” And then, to change the subject: “And how have you been faring?”

“Me?” Ippolit turns to him, flustered. Clearly, this is not something he is usually asked. “I’m all right, I suppose, considering. Better than Father, at any rate.”

“You must give him my condolences.” The words feel unnatural the moment he says them.

“I will.” A pause. “He wants me to get married.”

“Oh?” says Dolokhov. “And do you suppose you will?”

“Suppose I’ll have to, now. I had always hoped Anatole would be the one to marry, once he—you know.” He shifts uncomfortably. “Father wants me to propose to Marya Bolkonskaya, but she’s practically spoken for, so I don’t know what to do.”

“She is? By who?”

“Nikolai Rostov. Do you know the family?”

“I’m familiar. Surprising, though.”

Ippolit shrugs. “I’ve never met either of them. Vera Berg told me, and she should know, being his sister.”

“Well, there may still be hope for you. I’ve heard young Rostov does not always keep the promises he makes to young girls.”

“It’s just as well to me,” says Ippolit. “I don’t think I’d like being married to her at all. Especially not if she’s anything like her brother. Did you know Count Bezukhov is getting married again?”

“Yes,” he says. “I’ve heard.”

“I thought it might be disrespectful, considering—considering what happened to Hélène. Father said not to mention it, but I thought….” He trails off, uncertain.

“What’s done is done,” he says. “I wish Count Bezukhov the best in whatever he should choose to pursue.” He is suddenly aware of the scar in his right arm where the bullet passed through all these years ago, of an echo of the humiliation and rage he felt then. _What’s done is done_ , he repeats mentally, this time to himself.

“I suppose you’re right,” says Ippolit, after a brief pause. “Well, I thank you for your kind words.”

“Please,” he says. He’s not sure what he’s asking for—whether he wants Ippolit to reassure him or leave him or tell him the truth. What he wants is for Anatole to come back, and Ippolit can no more give him that than he can. He stops himself. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Ippolit looks at him strangely. “I heard,” he says, “you were always very close to my sister.”

_Of course that’s what he would assume._ “Yes,” he says, because in talking about Hélène he can at least retain his composure. “We were very intimate friends.”

Ippolit’s eyebrows raise, almost imperceptibly, and Dolokhov knows what he thinks. It’s an easy trap to fall into, and the poor fool has no one to guide him, with his father away in Moscow and his sister and brother dead.

“I thank you,” says Ippolit again. His posture is stiff, uncomfortable—he bears a weight now, after all, a responsibility he’d never imagined would be his.

There is nothing for him here. Dolokhov takes his leave and goes out onto the street, into his carriage. The streets are dark and empty, the air swirling with barely perceptible flurries of snow. He leans back and closes his eyes and thinks about what Anatole would be doing on a cold winter night like this.

. . .

Dolokhov has never been one for philosophy. People are alive and then they aren’t, and the particulars matter little in the scheme of things. He has killed men before, men whose faces he never saw and whose names he never cared to know. He has come close on several occasions himself. The prospect of mortality has never bothered him—if it isn’t one thing, he thinks, it will surely be another.

The only other death that ever affected him in this way was his father’s. He was young then, not yet thirteen, and he cried all night after they received news of the duel. But that was a long time ago; he didn’t know better, it was excusable. Afterward, he learned not to be bothered by such things.

And yet here he is, almost half a year since Anatole died and he still can’t stop thinking about him. For years he told himself that this—Anatole—didn’t matter. Anatole was a thoughtless boy, handsome and rich and easily manipulated, that was all. Anatole was careless, irrepressible, unaware of life’s difficulties. Anatole was impossibly charming and had a laugh that made his heart catch and was the only person who could make Dolokhov forget even for a moment the struggles for which chance had ordained him. Anatole was the best thing that ever happened to him.

He does everything expected of him. He goes around with his uniform and saber, says cutting and sarcastic things and wins thousands of rubles at cards. He goes to balls when they cannot be avoided, flirts with the married women but never does anything more than that. At home he is as he always is. He helps his mother with bookkeeping and speaks with his sister. Galina can sense that something is wrong with him, and she gives little hints in an attempt to draw him out. He pretends he doesn’t notice them—the last thing he wants is to trouble her, even disregarding the delicate nature of his problem. He teaches her how to play baccarat, and he always lets her win.

In the morning he finds himself more often than not alone in his lodgings, staring at the ceiling and trying to summon the will to move forward. On the outside he is still every bit the dashing and ferocious officer, the person he worked so hard to become.

He tells himself that it will end eventually. Someday the pain will be dulled, the anger blunted, the despair closed off in some distant corner of his heart. Until then, he will wait. He will fight bravely and smile ironically and act as if nothing has changed, as if nothing at all is wrong.

. . .

“So,” she says, “do you remember me?”

He turns, startled but refusing to let it show. The woman leaning against the terrace railing is appraising him quite openly, her eyes sparkling in the torchlight. She folds her arms and awaits his answer.

“I’m afraid I don’t,” he says, without emotion. He has never been one to lie for the sake of sociability, and he is not about to start now. “I didn’t think anyone else was out here.”

She sighs. “Typical, I suppose. You were always rather more fascinated with my cousin.”

And then he remembers. “Vera Ilynichna,” he says. “It has been a long time.”

She smiles at his recognition. “Surprisingly long, isn’t it? One would think we’d have run into each other. I’ve heard lots of stories about you.”

The way she says it is strange—neither flirtatious nor judgmental, but simply, as if it’s only to be expected. How different she is, he thinks, from the rest of her family—all pale eyes and knowing looks where they are bright-faced and improbably cheerful. She moves to stand closer to him, their backs to the ballroom door. Behind them, the Schervatovs’ guests are in the middle of the second mazurka, but out here it seems like it’s just the two of them, alone in the cool spring evening.

“What kinds of stories?” he asked.

“Oh, that you almost murdered Count Bezukhov. And threw a bear into the river. And got into some kind of scrape with a Persian shah. And then, of course, there was that affair with one of my—” She stops. “With my brother. I’m sorry, I sometimes forget that I only have the one now.”

Suddenly he remembers—a small figure tumbling from a horse, blond curls and red on the snow, Denisov wringing his hands. How unremarkable it had seemed at the time, a moment in a blur of moments. _Of course_ , he thinks. This is Petya Rostov’s sister.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Well, you shouldn’t be. _You_ weren’t the one that killed him. He wanted so very much to go off to war, like Nikolai was doing, and he _must_ have known this was possible. Petya isn’t— _wasn’t_ stupid, whatever else he was.”

Her voice is remarkably nonchalant. Clearly, whatever grief she feels (felt?) for her brother, she has put it behind her. Much faster, he thinks, than he has.

“I was there, you know,” he says.

“Where?”

“On the front,” he says. “With your brother. When he died. Denisov and I were leading the squadron.”

“Ah,” she says, looking slightly troubled for the first time in their conversation. She smoothly puts it behind her. “Well, Captain Dolokhov,” she says, “you do seem to have a talent for showing up in inconvenient circumstances.”

“I could say the same for your family.”

She smiles—not one of her siblings’ radiant smiles, but a small, sly one. “I suppose there are two sides to every story. In either case, I’ve heard you’ve been doing very well for yourself on the front, Captain.”

“Yes,” he says, noting her pointed use of his new rank. “I suppose that I have.”

“So it has been a good season for you, then? In spite of everything?”

He pauses. Surely she can’t mean what he thinks she means.

“In spite of what?” he says, his voice harder, more pressing.

“Well,” she sighs. “I always thought you and Anatole Kuragin were very— _intimate_.”

He pauses, hands clenching the railing. What is he to do? Deny it?

“If nothing else,” she continues, “then you were at least very good friends.”

“At least,” he says roughly. He turns to her abruptly. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t know,” she says simply. “I suspected. And I see that I suspected right.”

Something in the smug tone of her voice infuriates him, and he reaches out to grasp her arm, digging his fingers into the skin above her elbow.

“You can’t tell anyone,” he whispers harshly. “Do you understand me?”

She glares at him. “Perfectly.”

He relinquishes her arm. She immediately reaches up to rub the sore place where his hand was, and looks at him with guarded suspicion.

“I’m not about to tell everyone,” she says. “I only thought—I only thought you might be wanting some comfort.”

It is an unexpected sentiment from her, and Dolokhov is not entirely sure if he believes her. They look at each other warily.

Finally, she turns away, drawing her shawl more closely around her shoulders and heading back toward the ballroom.

“Wait,” he says, surprising even himself.

She turns back to him, her raised eyebrows indicating that she is just as shocked as he is. He shakes his head. He can’t explain it, but he hasn’t thought about Anatole’s death—the terrible, painful reality of it—for the entire time they’ve been talking.

Maybe, loath as he is to admit it, it _is_ good to have it out in the open like this.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Apologizing is not familiar to him, but talking with Vera is better than standing alone and despairing, and at this point he is willing to do most anything to convince her to stay.

“It’s all right,” she sighs. “I understand why you would feel the need for secrecy.” She relaxes, moves back onto the terrace. “I didn’t want to dance anyway.”

She returns to the corner where he found her, invisible to everyone inside. He watches as she arranges her skirts and positions herself comfortably against the wall. Anyone who stumbled upon them, he realized, would think he was trying to seduce her.

Vera looks up at him expectantly. “Well?” she says impatiently. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He looks up at the sky. The stars are out by now, twinkling brightly in the cold, vacant sky. If the church is to be believed, then Anatole might be up there now, watching him and laughing.

Of course, he thinks, he doubts most in the church would judge Anatole worthy.

He shakes his head, pushing aside memories of other springs, other night skies. He looks back at the ballroom and then at Vera, and then he mutters a curse under his breath and goes and sits down next to her.


End file.
